


Chicken Soup

by Scrunyuns



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Drug Use, Falling In Love, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Sickfic, Slight Canon Divergence, Some profanity, Spooning, canon compliant bickering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:36:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6669844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunyuns/pseuds/Scrunyuns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Numbers is a handful and a half when comes down with the man flu. But if Wrench won't help him out, then who will?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Soup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [periken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/periken/gifts).



> I had the flu several times last year, and as I was lying there in pain and misery I couldn't do much else than just write Wrenchers sickfic. Et voila!
> 
> Wrote it before the season 2 finale so it's kinda canon divergent (in that they don't know each other that well in this fic).
> 
> First person who can figure out which spooky TV show they're watching gets to commission a fic from me! ...I mean only if you want one, of course.
> 
> Dedicated to Perri because I know he lives for fluff :-)

Just as he's about to head out for lunch, Wrench receives a worrying text from his partner.

'Come over RIGHT NOW' is Numbers' demand.

'Why, what's wrong?' Wrench texts back, frantic, thinking of all the different ways in which his partner could be in mortal peril.

'JUST GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE'

'To your apartment?'

'YES HURRY'

Wrench jumps in his car and floors it all the way down to Numbers' street, swerving in the thick sleet whenever he turns a corner. Bursting through the broken glass door of the decrepit apartment building, he sprints up the four flights of stairs to his partner's abode, his long legs taking two steps at a time. To his relief, the door to the apartment is unlocked. Wrench is scanning his surroundings for any sign of a struggle when he suddenly feels the vibrations of his phone in his pocket.

'Bedroom,' the text says. '1st door left.'

Slowly, tentatively, Wrench pushes the door open, expecting to find his partner lying in a pool of blood. Instead he finds him lying in bed, looking like a painting of a sad street urchin, cheeks flushed and hair like a wet crow's nest.

"Hey," he croaks.

 _You're sick_ , Wrench signs, his shoulders slumping in relief.

Numbers nods solemnly as he grabs a paper tissue from a cardboard box sitting on the nightstand and proceeds to blow his nose with it. Crumpling it up, he throws the mucus-soaked tissue in a paper waste basket sitting in a corner on the other side of the room. It's a direct hit, which would have been impressive if not for the fact that he seems to have had a lot of practice; the basket is almost filled to the brim, and around it the floor is littered with crumpled-up tissues.

 _You asked me to come all the way over here just because you're sick?_ Wrench asks.

Numbers nods again.

 _You fucking asshole. I_ _thought you were dying!_

 _Sure feels like it,_ Numbers signs with shaky hands. _Could you please get me some soup from the Chinese place across the road?_

_What, you can't go there yourself?_

_I tried,_ Numbers answers, looking particularly pitiful. _But I couldn't even make it halfway to the door. And it's so fucking cold._

This has got to be the most pathetic case of the man flu Wrench has ever seen, and he's finding it hard not to laugh. He wants to tell Numbers to go fuck himself but his partner just looks so miserable and helpless, he can't bring himself to do it.

 _What flavor?_ he asks with a sigh.

\---

Numbers struggles to sit up straight when his partner returns. Wrench helps him prop up his pillows before handing him a spoon and a container of hot chicken soup. Signing his thanks, Numbers attempts to feed himself but his quivering hands end up spilling the soup everywhere but into his mouth.

 _Oh, for fuck's sake,_ Wrench thinks, snatching the spoon out of Numbers’ hands with a pointed eyeroll. Cursing his soft heart, he helps his incapacitated partner finish his meal. The gesture earns him a look of gratitude seldom seen.

 _You got some medicine?_ he asks, putting the empty container aside.

 _Yeah,_ Numbers signs.  _In the bathroom. Behind the mirror. Small, brown glass jar._

Wrench finds the jar in question and closely inspects it, briefly pondering why there's no label. Then he remembers that Numbers is unlikely to have his name registered under any legit doctor's office, and so he thinks no more of it.

\---

After bringing the TV in from the living room and getting a cold, wet towel for Numbers' forehead - all on his partner's command, of course - Wrench puts his jacket back on and heads for the door. Suddenly he feels something soft hitting the back of his neck, and he turns to find one of Numbers' crumpled-up snot tissues on the floor behind him. His partner looks crestfallen, staring at him with big, wet, bloodshot eyes.

_Where do you think you're going?_

_Home,_ Wrench signs with a puzzled look on his face.

 _Don't go,_ Numbers begs. _Stay. Watch TV with me._

 _Does that old piece of junk even do captions?_ Wrench asks, gesturing to Numbers' sad excuse for a television set.

_So we’ll watch a nature documentary or a cartoon or something, then. Just don't leave me here like this._

_This is a hotbed of disease. I don't want to get sick._

_Please._

_I've got stuff to do._

_Like what?_ Numbers asks with a huff. _Reading cowboy novels and jacking off? Jacking off to cowboy novels? Come on. Be a buddy._

 _You are making it very hard to be a buddy,_ Wrench thinks to himself. But then, Numbers is right: he doesn't really have anything better to do today. Not today, not tomorrow, nor the next day. He never does. But he’s not about to tell Numbers that. Taking his jacket off again, Wrench sits down in the armchair next to the bed - but even this simple act his overbearing partner seems to have a problem with.

 _No,_ Numbers signs. _Come and sit in bed with me._

Hesitating, Wrench suspects it might just be a stupid joke. Numbers is looking pretty damn serious, though, patting the left side of the bed. The expression on his face is entirely unreadable.

 _There's plenty of room,_  Numbers assures him.

Wrench lingers for a moment before getting up and trudging over to the bed. Kicking off his boots, he takes a seat on top of the comforter, as far away from his partner as possible.

 _That's better,_ Numbers signs with a smile, content at last.

 _You're a real child,_ Wrench tells him. _You know that?_

\---

The meds, whatever they were, seem to have kicked in because Numbers is now very dazed and very giggly. He laughs hysterically at Ren and Stimpy's antics, sending him into fits of coughing that somehow don't seem to temper his mood. Not one bit.

 _What the fuck were in those pills?_ Wrench asks, horrified.

Numbers simply shrugs and wipes the tears from the corners of his eyes.

 _I don't know,_ he signs. _I got a guy, he brings them in from... somewhere. I don't know. South America somewhere._

_You don't even know where they're from? Are you fucking insane?_

_What, are you worried about me?_ Numbers asks with a bemused look on his face. _That's sweet._ He reaches out, trying to stroke his partner's cheek, but Wrench is quick to swat his hand away.

 _Stop that,_ he signs. _Why couldn't you call someone else, anyway? I thought you said you had tons of friends._

 _They're all busy,_ Numbers signs with a noncommittal flick of his wrist, trying to act all nonchalant about it.

But Wrench isn't a career criminal for no reason. He can smell bullshit from a mile off, and this is some grade A manure. Putting on his best no nonsense face, he stares his partner down until Numbers' aloof facade finally crumbles.

"Alright, fine," Numbers groans, throwing his hands up in the air. _I lied,_ he signs. _I don't have any friends. You happy?_

_Why would you lie about that?_

_I don't know. I guess I didn't want you to think I'm a loser._

_I don't have any friends either,_ Wrench confesses. _I don't think that makes me a loser. Just goes with the territory, you know? In our line of work, the closest I'll ever get to having a friend is you._

This makes Numbers smile again. His drug-addled mind had immediately read too much into Wrench's comment, and now he's looking like he's about to cry.

 _I consider you a friend,_ he signs before taking his partner's hand and squeezing it softly.

 _Okay, great,_ Wrench signs with a grimace, trying to free his hand. _But you have to stop touching me. You're going to make me sick._

\---

Wrench wakes up to find that the sun has gone down, the only source of light being the cold flicker from the TV. He vaguely recalls starting to nod off during a particularly boring European film.

Numbers is fast asleep, which offers a golden opportunity for Wrench to leave him to his own sickly devices - but then Wrench notices that his partner is shivering. _Goddammit._ He leaves Numbers' side, not to make his escape but to go in search of another blanket. Returning empty-handed, he tries to keep his partner warm by draping his jacket over him. It doesn't seem to make much of a difference; Numbers is still shaking like a leaf. Wrench then checks the heaters, which all seem to be on full blast despite hardly giving off any heat at all. _Numbers, you stupid little shit,_ he thinks. _You live in North Dakota. Why don't you have any fucking blankets?_

There's really only one thing for it. Biting the bullet, Wrench crawls back into bed with his slumbering partner and gets under the covers.

\---

To his immense relief, Wrench wakes up long before his partner. The night before, Numbers had stopped shivering once he'd received some body heat - and that had been Wrench's one and only intention, no one could argue with that. It had all been totally innocent. Nevertheless, he's counting his lucky stars that he hasn't had to explain himself to his partner. At least, not yet. Wrench clings to the hope that the fever and those pills had knocked Numbers out enough to leave no recollection of that spooning session. _Or I might never hear the end of it._

Carrying a plate of food in one hand, he shakes his partner back to consciousness. Numbers stirs and sits up with a groggy look on his face.

 _Eat this,_ Wrench orders and points to the bacon sandwich he has prepared for him.

 _I can't,_ Numbers signs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

_Fucking eat it, dummy. You need the energy._

_I can't. I don't have an appetite right now._

_You need to eat,_ Wrench insists. _Or those painkillers are going to corrode your stomach lining._

_Bullshit. Just give me the pills._

With a heavy sigh, Wrench sets the plate down on the nightstand and goes to grab the brown glass jar from the bathroom. He shakes one pill out into his palm and hands it to Numbers, who looks at it like it's something from outer space.

 _What the fuck is this?_ he asks.

 _Shit, here we go._ In the morning, while Numbers was still snoring softly, Wrench had poured the unidentified pills into the toilet and swapped them with some less suspicious, probably less lethal ones. He had really believed his partner wouldn't notice, but now it appears Numbers is too big of a pill connoisseur to be fooled.

 _It’s A-S-P-I-R-I-N,_ Wrench informs him, very matter-of-fact.

_Where are the other pills?_

_I threw them out._

Numbers' jaw drops.

"You threw them out?!" he yells, looking like he's been shot straight through the heart. "What the fuck for?!"

It has always annoyed Wrench that his partner tends to shout instead of sign when he's angry with him, but in situations like this he doesn't need working ears to know what Numbers is saying.

 _I did you a favor,_ Wrench signs with a shrug. _You didn't even know what was in them, or where they came from._

 _Fuck off,_ Numbers signs, glaring daggers at him. _Can you not see that I'm dying here? I need my pills. Not these… goddamn baby drugs._

_You’re getting the baby drugs. Deal with it._

_Okay, but then I'm having three._

_You can have one and a half,_ Wrench signs.

_Two._

_No deal._

"Fine!" Numbers growls. "You ballbusting son of a bitch..."

Wrench holds back a laugh as he bites off half of a pill and hands it to his disgruntled partner.

\---

 _I need to clean myself up,_ Numbers signs. 

 _I'm not giving you a sponge bath,_ Wrench is quick to inform him.

_Can you go run the water for me, though?_

_Sure. If you promise to brush your teeth. Your breath stinks._

"It's your attitude that stinks," Numbers mutters to himself as his partner goes off to run him a bath.

Wrench returns a few minutes later, sticking his head in the doorway.

 _Can you walk to the bathroom?_ he asks, just as a joke.

 _I don't think so,_ Numbers signs with a pout. _I don't even think I can sit up straight. Can you pull my arms?_

Wrench barks a laugh and shakes his head.

_You're not that sick._

_Look. My abs are completely destroyed from coughing so much, I can't sit up. It hurts. Everything hurts._

Wrench finally walks over, grabs his partner by the arms and pulls him into an upright position, making sure Numbers sees just how hard he's rolling his eyes.

_For a dangerous criminal you are extremely whiny, you know that?_

"Yeah, yeah..."

\---

As Wrench politely averts his eyes, Numbers peels off the last of his clothes and gingerly lowers himself into the tub of steaming hot water.

"Ahhh... God, that's good."

When they're out on a job they'll often find themselves in close quarters and Wrench has seen his partner in the buff - or as good as, anyway - on more than one occasion. Yet this is somehow different, more intimate. Right here, right now, in Numbers' own bathroom, Wrench is feeling like he's seeing something he shouldn't.

 _I don't think I have to be around for this,_ he signs as he attempts to leave.

A splash of hot water hits his back, and he turns to find his partner hanging halfway out of the tub, looking at him with pleading eyes.

 _You can't go,_ he signs. _I need you here._

_What for?_

_What if I fall asleep and drown?_

_You won't,_ Wrench insists.

Please _stay._

_You've got some serious abandonment issues, don't you?_

_I just don't wanna have to return as a ghost and haunt you for letting me drown._

Ruing the day he let Numbers have his cell number, Wrench relents and takes a seat on the toilet lid.

 _How did you get sick, anyway?_ he asks. _Seeing as you don't have any friends or family to contaminate you._

 _I don't know. I think it was that guy at the supermarket the other day who coughed in my face. Remember I told you about that? You should have seen this guy, he was_ rank _. I'm surprised he only gave me the flu and not smallpox._

 _What_ I'm _surprised by is how pathetic you get when you're sick._   _You're like an old man. When I get sick, I just feel a bit groggy for about a day and then it passes._

"Well, lucky you," Numbers mutters.

 _You feel any nausea?_ Wrench asks.

 _No, thank god. That's the one thing I_ don't _get. But this one time when I was sick I coughed so hard I threw up in my mouth a little. And then I threw up some more because it was so gross._

 _Please don't do that,_ Wrench signs, making a face. _At least not while I'm here._

 _I might, just to annoy you,_ Numbers teases with a wink and a fiendish smirk.

_Then I'd just leave you here to fend for yourself. In a pool of your own vomit._

_No, you wouldn't,_ Numbers signs, smiling blissfully as he closes his eyes and sinks further down into the tub.

 _No, you're right,_ Wrench thinks to himself. _I probably wouldn't._

\---

Numbers is back in bed, all bundled up in a big fluffy bathrobe. He is warm and cosy, squeaky clean, hair shampooed and dried, teeth brushed - but still he is miserable.

 _I've got a splitting headache,_ he signs, hissing at the pain.

 _Have you had plenty of water?_ Wrench asks.

_I've had about a gallon of water today, that's not the problem. I need more pills._

_More pills, more pills,_ Wrench echoes in his head as he administers another painkiller and a glass of water to his whiny partner. _What a junkie._ He's really starting to regret flushing the hard drugs. Numbers is so much more manageable when he's high as a kite.

 _Can you take me to the balcony?_ Numbers asks and washes the painkillers down.

_Why?_

_I want a smoke._

_Smoke? Now?_ Wrench signs, incredulous. _You're already coughing up green slime, you probably shouldn't smoke._

 _Fuck off,_ Numbers retorts with a scowl. _I'm a grown man, I can do what I want._

_You should probably take this as an opportunity to quit._

_But I'm not ready to quit just yet._

_You might never be ready. You just have to do it._

_What do you know? You've probably never touched a cigarette in your life._

_Do what you want then, asshole,_ Wrench signs, shrugging. _But I'm not helping you to the balcony. I'm not going to be your enabler. And don't expect me to stick around to look after you when you get lung cancer, either._

"Fine," Numbers hisses through his teeth. _I'll just_ crawl _to the balcony then, shall I?_

 _Sure._   _I'll be sitting here watching you struggle. Good luck._

Wrench's valiant efforts to save his partner from a slow, agonizing death is rewarded with two middle fingers.

\---

The cigarette had made Numbers cough like crazy and he'd felt like throwing up. Suddenly it had dawned on him that he hadn't eaten a thing all day. With a masterful pout, he'd succeeded in convincing his put-upon partner to go out and get him some more soup.

 _Got you some stuff from the cornershop, too,_ Wrench tells him when he returns, pulling various items out of a blue plastic bag. _Tea, supplements, oranges-_

 _Don't like oranges,_ Numbers cuts in.

 _What's wrong with oranges?_ Wrench asks, sighing.

_They're too sour and when I eat them I just end up with sticky orange juice running down my hands. And the pulp gets stuck in my teeth._

Now Wrench needs to take a moment and count to ten. Taking a few deep breaths, he closes his eyes real tight and rubs the bridge of his nose. _Don't murder him,_ he tells himself. _It's not worth it. You won't get paid._

 _Look,_ he finally tells his partner. _I need you to stop being such a baby._ _You could do with the vitamin C._

 _Since when were you such a mom?_ Numbers asks.

_Since you sent me that pitiful text telling me to come and save you._

Numbers can't argue with that, so he simply glares at him.

 _Now you're going to eat that soup,_ Wrench commands. _I'm going make you a cup of tea, and then you're eating an orange. Understood?_

_Anything for mother._

For the sake of everyone's sanity, Wrench opts to ignore that jibe and goes to the kitchen to prepare the tea. He adds lemon, ginger and honey - just like his foster parents used to do when he was sick. He even cuts the orange into little wedges and removes the skin. _Why am I doing all this for that stubborn, fussy little turd?_ he asks himself. _Shit... maybe I_ am _a mom._

\---

 _So let me get this straight,_ Wrench signs, interrupting Numbers' TV binge. _This guy was trying to bang his brother's girlfriend and now he's some kind of fungus monster?_

_Pretty much._

_Why?_

_Because of acid rain and aliens, I guess?_ Numbers signs with a yawn.

 _This show is fucking weird,_  Wrench points out.

_You're lucky you can't hear the agent's godawful jokes. Or that cheap synth music._

_Why do you watch it, then? If it's such trash, I mean._

_I don't know,_ Numbers signs, shrugging. _It's just kind of funny._ _And some episodes are actually really spooky. Just not this one._

_I'll believe that when I see it._

_Well, I still can't believe you haven't seen this show before. It's really popular._

_You know I prefer books._

_Nerd._

Something in Wrench's pocket is vibrating. A text from the Syndicate has ticked in, asking them to go out on a job. It also mentions that they’ve been trying to get a hold of Numbers, who has apparently been ignoring them. _Oh shit._ Wrench shows the text to his partner, but Numbers just scoffs.

 _I already called in sick,_ he signs, rolling his eyes. _Tell them to get fucked._

Taking a more polite approach, Wrench apologizes to their bosses with a quick text, explaining that Numbers is sick and that he himself doesn't feel too comfortable going without a translator. It's only a half lie - he can do just fine on his own, but it's a pain in the ass.  _They can get someone else to do it this time,_ he tells himself. _They've got plenty of people. They'll live._

The fungus monster and his brother (who is now a fungus monster, too, as it turns out) escape the FBI agents, leaving a trail of spore-infested bodies in their wake. As the credits roll, Wrench looks over to his right and finds his partner fast asleep. This is another opportunity to sneak away undetected, of course - but before he gets a chance to do so, Numbers' arm shoots out and falls on top of Wrench's chest. So now he is stuck there, in bed with his partner. _Again._ And strangely, this time around it doesn't disturb him half as much as it probably should. It's an alarming notion.

 _You little shit,_ Wrench thinks to himself, gently brushing a lock of hair out of Numbers' eyes.

\---

The following morning, Numbers is the first one to stir. Wrench only notices this when he opens his eyes to finds his partner placing a container of soup on his nightstand, and reality sets in.

 _Good morning, sunshine._   _Got you breakfast._

Panic-stricken, Wrench leaps out of bed.

 _I just fell asleep,_ he signs. _It was an accident. I didn't mean to-_

 _It's okay,_ Numbers signs. _Calm down._

_I should go._

_Why?_

_I shouldn't be here. This isn't right._

_Everything's cool. We're friends. Friends hang out._

_Well I'm afraid I might want to be-_

He stops mid-sentence, holding up his index finger at Numbers.

 _Might want to be what?_ Numbers asks, his eyebrows knitting together.

Then, as if by divine intervention, Wrench lets out a monster of a sneeze, one that almost knocks him off his feet and prompts his partner to cower away from the spray of germs. Just when Wrench has recuperated, another gargantuan sneeze follows. And another. And yet another. When the dust finally settles, Numbers grabs a bunch of tissues from the Kleenex box on his nightstand and hands them to his partner.

“Jesus Christ, man, your nose is like a fucking geyser,” he mumbles as Wrench blows his nose into the paper tissues.

Still sniffling, Wrench signs his gratitude and tosses the tissues in the trash.

 _I guess you caught my bug,_ Numbers signs, unable to hide his smirk. _How unfortunate. You'd better stay then, let me take care of you._

With surprisingly gentle hands, he takes his partner by the shoulders and guides him back to the bed, ignoring Wrench's protestations.

 _Why?_ Wrench asks as Numbers attempts to tuck him in.

_Why what?_

_Why are you taking care of me?_

_Because you're sick and I care about you... believe it or not. I wasn't just taking advantage of your kindness, you know. It goes both ways._

Wrench gives his partner an odd look.

 _Didn't I tell you I consider you a friend?_ Numbers asks.

_I thought you were just drugged up._

_I was. But that doesn't make it any less true._

Wrench isn't quite sure how to respond to that. The sudden, inexplicable urge to hug his partner is unsettling, to say the least. And it's bad enough that, just before his well-timed sneezing fit had saved his ass, he'd come dangerously close to admitting to some things. Things that are best left unsaid. So Wrench does what he always does when he’s feeling overwhelmed: he changes the subject.

_Are you even in good enough shape to look after me?_

_I'm feeling much better now,_ Numbers signs. _You just rest up. And eat your soup._ Grabbing the remote, he takes a seat next to his partner on the bed and turns on the TV.  _Let's see what's on the idiot box today._

As Wrench sips his chicken soup, he laments the space left between the two of them, the distance. And when Numbers looks over at him for a brief moment, smiling fondly, Wrench feels a warmth spread throughout his entire body. It doesn't take him long to figure out what it all means. Sure as hell isn’t the soup.  _This is bad,_ the sensible part of his brain decides. _This is very, very bad. Nip this in the bud while you still can, and get the fuck out of there._

But right now, leaving his partner's side is the last thing he wants to do. The weather outside is so cold, the bed is so warm, the soup is so good and Numbers is just so... well, best not to dwell on that part.

_Maybe I'll just stay a little while longer._


End file.
